In a world where in-stream paid placements augment our reality…

We spent a lot of time indoors, smoking and talking. She wasn’t physically beautiful, but I didn’t want someone beautiful; I wanted someone who made me feel safe, which Zoe did—until the night I mentioned her ring.

It was a large copper band with a number of tiny stones set into it, a trashy-looking thing with a vaguely “Lord of the Rings” aesthetic. I asked her what it was.

“This?” she said absent-mindedly, sticking one hand out as she manipulated a joystick with the other, careering through some virtual maze. “It’s an appetite-reduction ring. See the tiny gems? There are nine of them. It helps correct biochemical imbalances in the body by reverse-actuating the ionic flow in my bloodstream. You should get one.”

Zombie-speech. She had reeled it off without a pause.

“Oh, no, Zoe.”

She paused her game. “What?”

“Not you, too.”

“I don’t understand. Are you all right?”

“Zoe, I’m going to ask you something, and you’d better tell me the truth.”

“What are you talking about? You look pale.”

“Is someone paying you to say that stuff?”

She giggled. “Sorry, babe, it just pops out sometimes. I didn’t mean to pitch you. I’m supposed only to do it to my girlfriends.”

“What?”

“Ignore me. You know how hard it is to keep track of one’s placements.”

“Placements?”

“Placements. Why are you making that face? You’re looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

“You have a lot of—placements?”

“Oh, don’t get on your high horse. You don’t work, either. What do you do for cash? If a girl doesn’t want a straight job, she has to monetize her social network.”

In general, I don’t read the New Yorker (not because I don’t like the content, but because their font configuration runs against the grain of my personal aesthetic preferences), but this work of fiction is definitely worth the effort.